


Graveyard Shift

by Argyle



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: F/M, Gen, Golden Age Hollywood, Health Code Violations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gravity was as constant as ever, the newspaper was riddled with all the expected typos, and occasionally (lest it become habit), one at a time (in the interest of bookkeeping), the dead came alive again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveyard Shift

It was much like any other day.

Oh, there were subtle differences: the sun came up a stitch earlier than it had the morning before, and the air was not as damp. But still people rose from their beds in search of French press coffee and crumb pastries, only to begrudgingly settle for Folgers and donuts reduced for quick-sale in the nineteenth century; still they got dressed and eked their way through rush hour traffic; still they longed to be elsewhere. Gravity was as constant as ever, the newspaper was riddled with all the expected typos, and occasionally (lest it become habit), one at a time (in the interest of bookkeeping), the dead came alive again.

The Pie Maker knew this as well as anyone. In no uncertain terms, he'd known for quite a long time.

And yet here once more was a subtle difference: today the newly-returned-dearly-departed ranked in the hundreds.

*

Chuck was eating strawberries. They were so ripe and so plump as to be considered almost perfect: 'ripe' because Ned had touched them and resurrected their sweetness for the sake of a pot of pansies, and 'almost' because they'd been purloined from a pie.

"D'you mind?" asked Ned, rather more softly than he intended: it's hard to talk around a grin.

"Can't help it," said Chuck. "I'm nervous."

"You eat when you're nervous? You know, I can't get a thing down. I feel so constricted in my chest until the question of whether human combustion is fact or fiction seems anything but irrelevant."

"It's fact," Chuck said, a bit louder than she'd meant: forming words through a mouthful of berry was a trick she'd not yet mastered. But fortunately for the conversation, she had mastered a very specific slice of anthropological studies. "Some Southwestern Paleo-Indian tribes believed it was the greatest compliment a god could bestow on a person."

"Would it were I should be so lucky."

"You know what they say about gift horses and mouths."

"Does it have anything to do with cavities? Is that why you're nervous?"

"Uh uh."

"Asteroids?"

"Nope."

A pause, and then: "Clocks?"

"Chronomentrophobia."

"What?"

"Fear of clocks."

"Oh. That, then?"

"No. But it may have something to do with the fact that Boris Karloff is hunched in booth seven, munching down a thick slice of key lime."

"That's Lon Chaney," said Ned, laying down a top crust. He pinched round the top and carefully poked the steam vents before resuming, "Karloff had cherry."

Of course. Chuck sighed and picked at a bit raw dough on the countertop; she supposed she should be awed. How often did one get the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart with a historical personage? It wasn't as if she'd never considered it: no lonely girl of twelve could resist imagining an embroiled conversation with Nietzsche and Twain.

But Nietzsche and Twain had been sighted with Chaucer at Chomp's Cheeseburgers, while the Pie Hole was brimming with mobsters, naturalists, and half of Who's Who in Hollywood, the Golden Years.

From his window-side seat, Bela Lugosi waved down Olive for refill of milk.

"Don't you think it's at all creepy?" Chuck continued.

"No."

Chuck arched a brow.

"I don't," Ned pressed. "They're like anyone else. They have to eat. They're clean -- or at least not revoltingly dirty. I mean, burial clothes are usually pretty nice. And they don't make a lot of noise." He cleared his throat. "Also, we can't discount the fact that they pay their checks."

"But where'd they come from?"

"My theory -- or I guess hypothesis? It hasn't exactly gone through rigorous scientific testing. My _hypothesis_ is that they came from the ground. Y'know. Like out of graveyards?"

"Ned? Turn around."

Ned turned around. "Yes?"

"Second stool to the left."

"Yes."

"Jimmy Hoffa, meet Ned. Ned, Jimmy Hoffa. Mr. Hoffa likes rainy days and long walks on the beach--"

"Isn't that classified?"

Chuck let out a short laugh. "It's like they were summoned out of thin air."

"C'mon. The de-- alive again can't be summoned. It doesn't work that way. There's an order to things, and I know for a fact that the hereafter has a strict curfew."

"'S not like their moms are up waiting for them."

"Or watching their sugar intake. Which is okay, right? For the economy."

*

The Pie Maker was correct: the dead were good business. Moreover, the dead kept coming. And so all the related industries, as they say, were booming: there was never a day that went by that the Coroner didn't find himself typing out a new toe tag.

This consumed between three-point-seven and six-point-six percent of his shift, depending on how many lions had escaped from the City Zoo that afternoon, or which streetcar was named Disaster that night. He also spent an hour talking to a certain private eye and his needling, jack-of-all-trade companions, twenty minutes on the phone with his Aunt Melinda, and five or so on the C-5 word jumble.

He sat out the remaining six and a half odd hours with his nose in a book.

He'd gone through all the classics, from _Aesop's Fables_ to _Wuthering Heights_ , and all the biographies on the Founding Fathers. He'd read up on current affairs, military history, religion, and math.

From there, he graduated to collected works, and took a certain pleasure at the regularity of them, gilt spines arranged in sequential order, shelved at attention to all but straddle the walls of his office. The lesser editions remained stacked by his desk, and the paperbacks sat in a box beside the file cabinet.

These were musty, thin volumes with yellowed pages and a pungency most palatable, odd, out of print assortments bought at libraries and estate sales. He was mindful while reading them: the paper was cheap and prone to split. And he set each aside with the knowledge that although he might well be the last person in the world to read it, he would at least have savored it to the last, even going so far as to eye both front matter and appendices.

That is where he found the advertisement, perched as it was between those boasting offers for Dynamic Tension Muscle Serum and bicycle tires:

_Expand your library!_

_For the novice collector and the master bibliophile alike comes this exciting offer to join the Penny Pincher Book Club, the first comprehensive literary circle to traverse all aspects of the written word. Here are just a few of the hundreds of exciting titles you'll find..._

It was dated February 1966.

1966 was a very good year.

Very carefully, the Coroner had clipped out the form, set to work at inking in his name and address, but then paced himself for the moment of truth: would it be _The Crying of Lot 49_ (he never knew a postmodernist he hadn't liked), _A Boy's Own Book of Practical Electronics_ (the wiring in his wireless was wonky), or _Dress For Success_ (in the interest of upping his professional ante).

In the end, he went with the latter. The book cost twenty-five cents, and with any luck, it would save him just as much as a write-off on his tax return.

And so he signed his name with a flourish: Melvin Malveaux. The 'Ms' looked not so much like tombstones as twin willows, heavy after the rain.

*

The fact was this: for the past week, Emerson Cod had been seeing dead people.

While it was true that he saw dead people on a regular basis (read: all the time), and although it was part of his job description (read: written in very fine print on the back of a cocktail napkin), it always made him uneasy to make their acquaintance (read: sick to the pit of his stomach).

But these dead people were indisputable, and he saw them everywhere he went. They got his green lights, sat in his sunshine, and drew away his attention. And apparently also the attention of everyone else: crime was down by leaps and bounds, there were few bodies for Ned to touch and Emerson to question, and very little reward money to collect. That is, he had jack shit to do and no fresh funds with which to do it.

No, these dead people walked around like god's gift to modern times, all decked out in historical finery as they performed public services and cheap tricks, drank and ate, each more lively than life and just as deadly.

Menaces, the lot of them.

It was a Tuesday – bad things always happened on Tuesdays – and Emerson sat slumped in a booth in the Pie Hole in the City, head in hand as he did everything within his power to avoid thinking about anything but a particularly delicate bit of pearling on his new toaster cozy.

"They look great to me," said Olive, who'd been waiting all morning for Steve McQueen to pull up in a mint green Jaguar D-Type XKSS. "Just like in pictures."

Emerson knew better. "Once saw one in a craft fair in Hoboken."

"Really?"

"Mm."

Olive slid onto the opposite bench, leaning heavily on her elbows. "Who was it?"

"What?"

"Cary Grant, right? Or Henry Fonda? Uh huh. I knew it."

Emerson finally looked up. "There ain't nothing you've got to say about these goons that'll make me interested. Don't you have other people to bother?"

"Just John Audubon, but he's about to fly the coop."

"Fowl play?"

"If he doesn't pay his bill," said Olive.

"Get out."

"You haven't told me your order."

"Slice of Dutch apple," Emerson said. "À la mode."

Olive shook her head. "We're out," she said, a little glumly, "but there's plenty of blackberry."

"Fine"

"Still want ice cream?"

"Three scoops. With hot fudge and whipped cream. And some of them rainbow sprinkles."

As Olive made a beeline for the counter, Emerson allowed himself the luxury of a look around, only to see... No one. The Pie Hole was empty.

But before he could think it odd, before he was able to wonder whether all those dead guys had run to the Gent's en masse, the sky began to fall.

*

Six-to-eight weeks after the Coroner placed his order with the Penny Pincher Book Club, a neat brown parcel was delivered to the morgue. He had opened it slowly.

It was a copy of the novel-length will and testament of one Erma Entwhistle, who wanted nothing more than to have her mortal remains donated to science. (The problem here being that she was less than specific about _which_ science, and the City College's medical, physics, and engineering departments were said to be rallying for a sack race to settle the score.)

Two days later, the Coroner received his own share of bad news: the club was regretful to inform him that his purchase could not be completed at present, but would he please accept a small token of good faith while his selection was put on backorder.

The good token was this: _Better Late Than Never: A Layman's Guide to Leasing the Lifeless_.

He read the testimonials twice-over before sliding a thumb beneath the cover, then skimmed the introduction (a polite 'hello' from A. Crowley, Jr.), and flipped to the table of contents.

_Chapter I – Selecting the Dead_

_Chapter II – Waking the Dead_

_Chapter III – Serving the Dead_

The Coroner began to read.

Fifteen minutes later, a _knick-knack-knock_ noise began to seep from the cold chamber, and like any other inquisitive employee of minimal distinction, he opened the door.

The corpse had smiled at the Coroner, and the Coroner, well— He smiled back.

*

_Special Report_

_The dead walk!_

_The city is gripped in fear this evening as the Living Impaired – thought until recently to be productive, if controversial members of society – continue to mob the streets, pillaging, plundering, and putting up a rousing resistance to police._

_Julius Caesar has yet to relinquish the wrecking crane with which he damaged several downtown structures this afternoon, despite a lengthy standoff with Special Forces… While Nostradamus and Emily Dickinson have annexed the CommunoBank headquarters on Fourteenth and Main._

_"There's no reasoning with them," says Mrs. Erma Jane Entwhistle, self-purported expert on the deceased. "Science tells us that."_

_In other news, sixteen lions have escaped from the City Zoo. Keepers are citing Genghis Kahn and the starting lineup of the 1973 Philadelphia Flyers as the culprits. Viewers are urged to stay indoors..._

*

"Didn't you hear what the newscaster said?" Ned squeaked, his knuckles going white as he gripped the countertop. "Emerson! Please. Don't go out."

"You got a better idea?" asked Emerson, not a little angrily.

"Yes. We wait out the massacre here. The doors are locked! This whole thing is bound to blow over in the morning."

Olive shook her head. "I think—"

"What about you?" Emerson shot Chuck a glare. "Got inside information?"

"Why would—" began Olive.

"I think we should weigh our options," said Chuck.

"That right? Weigh 'em," said Emerson.

Chuck ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. The fire across the street, visible in intermittent glare on the windowpanes, had diminished, but only slightly, and the surrounding pavement was crusted with concrete and wishboned girders. "One," she looked at Ned, "we stay here and risk being surrounded. Two," she looked at Emerson, "we go out and risk being ambushed. And I don't know about you, but neither—"

"Hold it. I have an idea," said Olive, and told them.

Emerson arched a brow. Ned closed his eyes. Chuck grinned and caught Olive in a hug.

Crossing by rooftop, they went to the one place where the dead stayed dead, except in those occasional instances when they were given an extra minute by the Pie Maker.

The Coroner was waiting for them.

*

Or so it seemed. In fact, he had been merely resting his eyes in the well-practiced manner of the public servant, careful to appear both self-aware and attentive to the needs of any passing city councilors, but indeed was otherwise morally obligated to hold his post during a time of local crises: the bodies were bound to pile up.

But what the Pie Maker and his companions didn't know was that the Coroner had also done his homework. Upon turning the final page of _Better Late Than Never_ , and finding it to be a pretty good read, he'd immediately inquired after the sequel: _Never a Better Time to Be Late_.

It was on backorder.

Which gave him ample time to survey his choices, here being that he had none. He explained this to his visitors in low doses, one sentence at a time to linger long and then settle like a stone.

As though on cue or possessed of a unified mind, the Pie Maker looked at Chuck, and Olive looked at Emerson; Emerson looked at the Pie Maker, and Olive looked at Chuck. It wasn't dejection, and yet it was close enough. The Coroner looked at his hands.

But then Chuck gave a little laugh before saying this: "Penny Pinchers Book Club? My aunts collected every monthly edition from 1953 to 1971. They're bound to have it."

They did.

By then, Ned didn't even need to pose as a radon inspector, and nor did Chuck need to pick the cellar Yale. Her Aunts Lily and Vivian were quite disinclined to budge from the presence of the first male caller they'd had in years. From her tip-toe vantage point beside the parlor window box, Olive recognized Errol Flynn. He was eating Jarlsberg on thin slices of toast.

He looked good to her.

*

"So," said Ned. "That's all there is to it?"

"Looks like it. But you know, it's more limerick than incantation. I mean, why even try to rhyme with orange?" Chuck shrugged and handed over the once-read paperback. "Nothing like the present."

"Hmm," said the Coroner.

Then he cleared his throat and said the words...

And the world shifted. No, the world did the fandango, but fortunately for every living, dead, and living (again) inhabitant, the world had eaten its Wheaties that morning and was wearing comfortable shoes.

*

A week later, Chuck was eating peaches. They were – why not just face it? – the best she'd ever had. They were freshly picked and perfectly ripe, plucked from a vendor's stall that morning.

Nothing had been sacrificed; Ned hadn't touched them.

But still he sat beside her, his sneaker-shod feet propped up on the roof's ledge, one hand stuffed in a pocket and the other flicking a gnat from his eye.

"Wasn't what I'd consider a harrowing sutuation," he said.

"No?"

"No."

"And what _would_ you consider a harrowing situation?"

Ned appeared to consider this. "Dinosaurs," he said, after a moment. "On Main Street. Aliens, maybe."

"And what was this?"

"An absolutely terrifying situation." He glanced up, meeting her eye. "At least when it's just me, I can control it. I can decide. Life and death can't be taken lightly, don't you think? Or don't you?"

"I think it's random. You just have to give as good as you get," said Chuck. She huddled into the folds of her shawl, not for the chill, but to feel the wool on her arms. "Does that bother you?"

"No." And then, "Yeah."

"But if it's other people too, you can't be alone in it."

"I'm not," said Ned. "But I was."

Chuck nodded. "Rudolph Valentino said the same thing."

"Yeah? So I guess it wasn't all for nothing."

But no one remembered but them: the Pie Maker, Charlotte Charles, Emerson Cod, Olive Snook, and the Coroner. The street crew cleaned the wreckage without knowing why, and the zookeepers welcomed their lions back into the pride without understanding how they'd escaped.

No one suspected that the dead had walked, dined, and conversed, or that in a short moment of placidity, Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton had not envisioned the equation for cold fusion, nor did they contemplate the vastness of time and space. Rather, together they solved the question of whether it was preferable to hang toilet paper over the front of the roll, or the back.

But unfortunately for the multitude of questioning souls the world over, chaos erupted before they could share the good word, and they took their answer back to the grave.

In other words, it was much like any other day.


End file.
